


Summer Wine

by felandaris



Series: Caboodles and Chantry Boys [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Birth, Cullen Rutherford Smut, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealousy, King Alistair, Limb loss, M/M, Multi, NSFW, POV Cullen Rutherford, Polyamory, Post-Trespasser, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Smut, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Trespasser, Trespasser DLC, Trigger Warning Alcohol, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vineyard, Wine, Winemaking, blood mention, countryside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7076500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition history, the throne abandoned and peace found... or have they?</p><p>Cullen, Alistair and Trevelyan <strike>and a baby...maybe</strike> after Trespasser<br/><strong><br/>    <a href="http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/161352144427/summer-wine-masterpost">See all the art here!</a><br/>  </strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel: To Belong (NSFW)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lao/gifts).



> Prompted by the lovely Lao.
> 
> This is as close to a songfic I’ll ever get to write. While I largely ignore the lyrics, [Nancy’s wonderful voice ](url)[](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ib_eW9VSUwM) purring that dreamy melody has accompanied many a writing session.
> 
> Rating is for future chapters. Also in my canon Thedas is experiencing global warming and Ferelden gets warm enough to grow wine. (^^')
> 
> Also a **trigger warning:** This fic contains detailed sensory descriptions of alcohol consumption, usually in italics. Proceed with caution if this might be a trigger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just him and her, but Alistair _still_ feels like a third wheel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This explores the relationship between Alistair and Trevelyan in more depth than I had previously covered. It was an intense writing experience and I may have shed a few tears in the process.  
> I'm seriously excited to finally start posting this series in full and hope you'll enjoy it!  
> There's wonderful NSFW art too and I'll link the Tumblr post once it's up since AO3 won't let me insert the image.

She sinks down and he rises within her. Ginger frizz tickles silken skin, blunt nails draw crescents onto curvy hips. Breaths catch, hisses transcend into moans then whines when she retreats, leaving emptiness. But it’s short-lived, because she drops again, engulfing heat, girth and a throbbing pulse.

A downwards glance reveals Alistair spread out, surrendering to her, to _them,_ keen gaze glued to her every move. The tip of his tongue flicks out, licking a curious line along that plump bottom lip when he catches her breasts jiggling.

He’s _beautiful_.

Outside the sun blushes with the evening’s onset, bathing the wall, sheets and him a timid pink. The rosy tint plays in his growing mane and darkens amber eyes.

Rhythm finds them, _it always does_ \- a languid ebb and tide of curling midriffs, intertwined fingers and soft slaps of skin. She succumbs to their bodies’ dance. To the twists and turns of the new, the challenging- two lovers, not three; the smaller bed’s creaks; her arm, a reminder of their struggle. Of the soothingly familiar- his little mewl when her insides flex, the hungry finesse of his lips. And of course Alistair’s _endurance_.  

Trevelyan holds back a parched moan. They’ve been here at least an hour, entangled like the sheets. Twice he’s shown her the heavens, and still he stands hard and thick inside her. Each movement deepens the pull in her thighs, heightening the soaked, sinful noises where they’re joined.

His quickening breath and hips tell her he _is_ close. She yelps in delight more than surprise when he flips her over with gentle but precise force. He barely leaves her, grabbing her legs to settle between them. At once her shins rise up below his arms, and he sinks deeper, _impossibly_. She moans a string of desperate gibberish, they both do. Her right hand, the one that feels, rises to cup his jaw. Strawberry blonde stubble prickles under her fingers. She sighs as he leans into her caress, pressing a peck into her palm all while _plunging_ into her. In time with his thrusts Trevelyan’s calves flop about, the headboard smacks against the wall, and there it is.

Through narrowed eyes, through a pressed _ah_ , Alistair bares his soul. Freckled forearms tremble and his hips still at last as he twitches and spurts, hot and creamy. And she lets him, accepts all of it, letting the herbs be her reassurance.

Alistair’s lids sink down along with his forehead, and he breathes a chuckle onto her skin. His brow is sweaty, his cheeks flushed, and she holds him close. His heart’s slowing beat reverberates sweetly against her chest, fuzzy hair scrapes against her bosom, and, _Maker_ , his smell. Heavy and musky, it would make her want more were her limbs not heavy as his satisfied form atop her. She’s not allowing him to move, tightening her hold and nibbling at his shoulder.

They remain like this, stroking tousled hair and listening to slowing breaths. He withdraws eventually, rolling off with the reluctance of the thoroughly sated. As soon as his head hits the pillow she reaches out, but he startles her with a quick sideways retreat.

His back remains a sight to behold, smooth skin stretching over defined muscle. She snuggles up, sneaking an arm under his, fingers grazing that roundest of belly buttons. Unlike other times he doesn’t react, doesn’t reach for her hand.

A thread of alertness weaves itself into the cosy blanket of fatigue enveloping her.

“Are you all right?”

Though Alistair’s face remains hidden she hears his wry smile. “I’m here with the former Lady Inquisitor on a beautiful summer’s eve at my very own vineyard. How could I not be all right?” The jovial pitch and faster-than-necessary pace betrays his unease, and she insists.

“Are you sure?”

Her probing is rewarded with a tensing of his shoulders along with a sigh he fails to stifle. She was going to ask again but he speaks, his tone low and oddly detached.

“Do you think Cullen will be back soon?”  
She frowns, inhaling to challenge the unexpected question but then closes her mouth again. Her mind is working, piecing together the signals Alistair is sending. “His aunt appears to be better so he should return within a day or two.” Having given him an answer, she demands one of him, if just with her body. Her arm winds tighter around his torso, a leg follows suit and her chin nestles in the curve of his shoulder. He sniggers at the onslaught but a moment passes before he responds.

Another sigh precedes his words, shaky and repressed. “Will you be happy?” His voice rings small, light, as if he’s afraid of-

_… rejection._

“Alistair-” His name has to suffice as an expression of her bewilderment.

“Wha- _ah_!” He yelps as she drags him onto his back to face her.

Confused eyes search his as she tries to read him. The lump in her throat stings with each bitter, metallic syllable.

“You think I’m fonder of him than you?”

At once Alistair’s gaze drops, dallies where he’s fidgeting with the blanket. His brow knits and he gives a chuckle, dry and devoid of humour.  

“You see…” She moves in, straining to hear him talk to the thin cotton layer his fingers are playing with. “I still enjoy being around.” His eyes meet hers, relaxed in calm sincerity as if he were reporting on the weather- _as if his Maker-forsaken self-depreciation weren’t about to crush her soul._

“ _Alistair_ -“

And he simply smiles, entirely comfortable with this treacherous idea he’s somehow _not good enough_.

“Oh, Alistair.” Her vision swims with the hot onset of tears through which she reaches for him. Shaky fingers caress his cheek like when they made love- which, bizarrely, to him doesn’t prove her feelings. _He’ll take what he can get, yet gives everything._

Alistair shakes his head, hazel gaze patient. “It’s all right, I-“

“It’s not!” Trevelyan’s sudden volume, her irate pitch have him flinching. She hurries to wrap her hands, flesh _and_ wood, around his.

“Alistair,” his name again, a plea this time. “I need you to know…” She hesitates, unsure how to make this veteran of the Fifth Blight and once ruler of a country understand he’s not just being tolerated. When the words find her Trevelyan’s gaze is steady, and in her chest pounds urgent affection.

“I need you to know,” her fingers tighten around his as if to stress her point, “you mean exactly as much to me as Cullen.”

“You don’t have to…” A wave of his hand dismisses her confession as well-meant lip service. Anger boils in her tummy; a powerless rage at Eamon, the Arlessa, at whoever neglected and abused him enough to instil the belief he’s forever unwanted. She tries again, her voice trembling with conviction.

“I love you, Alistair Theirin. And I thank the Maker for the gift of you.”

“You do?” Doubt still has him frowning, his mouth moving with self-conscious reluctance.

“With all my heart and soul.” She reads his next thought. “And so does Cullen.”

A blush, whether shocked or sheepish. “Really?”

She shakes her head, smoothing a lock from his forehead. “Cullen _adores_ you. As do I. We’ve survived all this together,” a nod at her left arm, “and without you there’s no us.”

His gaze drops again, studying his ever-fiddling fingers. A few heartbeats hammer by before his contemplative pout widens into a smile- one that spreads beyond the corners of his mouth to his cheeks, his eyes, his entire demeanour. And then Alistair looks up, his face bright with joy and something else- the incredulous gratitude of someone who hasn’t been told they matter in far too long. A pang of guilt registers at the back of Trevelyan’s head, a reminder to always ensure he knows how she feels. But for now her focus rests on her lover, on those sweetest words, thick with emotion. “I love you too.”

She sobs, a happy sound. “I know, and that makes me the luckiest woman in Thedas.”

Growing confidence brings on a grin, lifts an eyebrow. “Does it now?” He’s not giving her a chance to respond, rolling above her to trap her under him. Their lips touch, and their noses, in silly, fluttering smooches.  
“Absolutely,” she mumbles into his cheek.

Their kiss deepens, drawing together not just lips but chins, foreheads, shoulders and chest. He loves her again, every motion fuelled by newfound faith, by the wondrous notion that he, Alistair Theirin, might just be good enough after all.

 


	2. Late Cloudreach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After all they'd survived, the three deserved peace and each other._

_Riesling is reminiscence. Acidic tartness evokes past struggles then gives way to the fruity fullness of your sweetest memories. A gentle prickle on your tongue holds the excitement of what is to come._

Cullen swayed the slim glass sitting in his palm; breathing in timid notes of pear and citrus as honey-coloured liquid swerved around its crystal confines. Seated at the round mosaic table in their cottage’s backyard, he squinted into the evening sun’s golden hue. Tired toes wriggled in worn sandals, and he hummed when last autumn’s vintage hit his palate.

Somehow this particular grape never failed to remind him of their journey of nearly half a decade- ever-blurrier images of a disbanded Inquisition, a throne left behind; buying this small but established vineyard a few hours south of Honnleath; settling, learning and living.

Two figures appeared, obscured by rays of white light. A hand at his forehead provided enough shade to make out a half-open shirt and a beard alongside a simple dress hugging shapely hips.

A smile played at his lips as Cullen reached to fill two glasses waiting at his side. Once within earshot, Alistair laughed, shaking his head.

“Always so presumptuous, Commander,” he greeted, pulling back the middle chair for Trevelyan. Tannin-stained fingers closed around the glass’ stem before his rear was seated, coaxing a chuckle.

“I do know my _partners in business_ ,” Cullen retorted then fell silent when Alistair held his drink up, appreciating its colour with a satisfied nod.

“We did well,” thick lashes dropped over hazel eyes as Alistair inhaled the Riesling’s bouquet.

“That we did,” Trevelyan agreed, “To us.”

A melodic clink initiated a comfortable silence, broken only by curious sips and pleased sighs. Sinking further into his seat, Cullen took in threads of pink weaving themselves into rich azure. The sun’s gradual descent brought the vineyards into clearer view- a vast expanse of green, spanning fields and hills as far as one could see.

From between a row of vines emerged a man, a good two heads shorter than Cullen, olive skin weathered from a lifetime’s outdoor work. A hat sat pulled deep into his face, though not deep enough to hide the silver strands peeking out from under its straw rim. Upon spotting his employers, he gave a soulful smile and a heavily accented greeting.

“Hello, Luis.” A brief exchange on how planting was going and he was on his way towards the staff quarters.  They’d been lucky to adopt the plantation’s established workforce- a dozen Antivans with a wealth of winery experience and no interest in Fereldan politics. Decade-long residents, these earnest people were too happy amongst themselves to question who the new owners were. Though the former king’s two most loyal guards had moved in with them, to date there had been no reason to doubt their secluded safety.

The scraping of a chair against pebbled ground roused Cullen from his musings.

“Some cheese with that?” Alistair didn’t wait for an answer before leaving.

“How are you, my love?” Cullen’s question drew Trevelyan’s attention, timid lines around her eyes accentuating their sparkle.

By now Cullen knew her smiles. He could tell wary from friendly, tired from giddy. This was pure, genuine contentment- lips parted, head tilted and not a worry on her.

“I’m well. Quite well,” she added, grabbing his hand with hers- her left, _wooden_ one. Not only was she allowing his touch, she was initiating it, _reaching_ for him. Alcohol and joy danced in Cullen’s heart and mind. She _was_ well, at last able to enjoy the peace she so deserved.

For a moment they simply sat and smiled, surrounded by nature, brickwork and the fruits of four years’ labour.

“Sometimes I do miss the palace larder,” Alistair admitted as he placed an oak board in the table’s centre, helping himself to some of its contents.

“Wishing you hadn’t abdicated?” Trevelyan humoured him, inspecting perfectly bite-sized chunks of local dairy produce.

Without a second’s hesitation Alistair grasped her other hand. Calm eyes wandered from hers to Cullen’s and back just as Cullen felt a broad toe stroke his own.

“Never.”

They remained holding hands and touching feet, quiet smiles all the words they needed. Eventually wine and cheese proved too tempting and they dug in, relishing delectable contrasts of liquid and solid, sweet and savoury.

Blue became crimson, then black. As shadows grew around them and the carafe emptied, breeze transitioned into chill.

Trevelyan was first to stir. “Shall we clean up and call it a night? It’s an early start tomorrow.” _It always was._

Alistair nodded. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he mused, picking up the dishes.

Cullen didn’t move. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Flat heels clicked then quietened as lights came on inside. Again Cullen hummed into his glass, listening to distant cricket chirps as he savoured the day’s final drops.

_They could have done far worse._

\------------------------------------

_Chardonnay is change. An abrupt, sour shock to your system, it reluctantly thins out into full-bodied clarity._

As ever, it was with a sliver of regret that Cullen spat out the mouthful of wine, examining its aftertaste as he watched Alistair mirror his actions.

“What do you think?” He’d come to rely on Alistair’s palate more than his own. The man had developed an impeccable sense of taste and a magnificent instinct for food pairings.

Eyes closed, Alistair pondered for an instant then looked at Cullen, about to respond.

He never did, for a woman’s shriek rang across the corridors; perhaps a _no_ , possibly an _ah_ ; shrill and harrowing either way.

A hasty look and they were rushing past rustic furniture, colourful rugs and stylised paintings. Though they were sprinting, their progress felt slow, more so since quiet had fallen over the house. In the half-minute it took to reach their destination, horrors of all sorts raced through Cullen’s mind- accidents, illness, bandits, spies; that Maker-forsaken elf-god returning to cause more heartache. When they at last passed through the open door they stopped in their tracks.

At the foot of their wide bed, suddenly slim and pale, sat Lady Trevelyan, former Herald and Inquisitor. Clad in her morning robes, right arm clutching her left, she was shaking, staring at the empty wall. The village healer stood beside her, rubbing her back before she left- not without shooting both men an ominous, downright eerie glance.

Panic gripped at Cullen’s heart, the same sudden fright he sensed from Alistair.

“Please,” a parched swallow, “Love, what is it?” _Did he dare to know?_

She didn’t speak at first. Her eyes, however, wide in anguish, her trembling bottom lip and hunched shoulders- they all foreboded fear and tragedy.

“Please,” Alistair repeated, a shaky whisper.

The heaviest exhale gave her courage. A split second before she spoke Cullen realised what she was going to say. He knew the words, delivered in a voice so thin, so hollow it rang foreign, _not hers_. Yet in an eye’s blink those three syllables tore down the tranquil walls, the very foundation of the home they’d built.

“I’m with child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Cliffhanger (^^)


	3. late Cloudreach, morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which the three digest the news, look forward to The Baby and live happily ever after... ~~yeah right OK who am I kidding~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of a suicide attempt

 

_The midday sun’s beam gave shape to scores of miniscule dust flakes floating through the room, whisked up by the swift wipe of a cloth across an ornate dresser._

_Cullen admired his handiwork then stepped through the archway into the master bedroom._

_At the mattress’ edge sat Lady Trevelyan, a wooden crate by her side, unpacking and sorting garments. Two stacks of shirts, remarkably similar, framed a pile of flimsy blouses and delicate floral patterns.  Placing each new item in her lap, she ensured it was folded and creaseless._

_It hit him then. Joy shot into his cheeks and his vision blurred. She was using_ both hands _, flesh and wood, agile and constricted, in carefree concentration; without the frown he’d thought etched into her brow, nor biting her bottom lip in unspoken frustration._

_It might have been his shadow that caught her attention, or the sigh which escaped him. When her eyes rose the dearest blush crept across her nose- the same shy tint that had grazed her face the first time his lips had._

_“How long have you been watching?”_

_Cullen pondered, debating between quip and compliment but never got a chance to voice either._

_“Is that the last of our clothes?” Alistair’s baritone rang chirpy as he walked past Cullen._

_“It is,” Trevelyan nodded, standing up._

_This seemed to please His Former Majesty, for he took a glance around the room, at Cullen then Trevelyan. “Getting there, aren’t we?”_

_“Absolutely,” she agreed, crossing towards the wardrobe, shrieking when Alistair picked her up mid-way and twirled them around. When he set her down she was giggling, breathless. “What was that for?”_

_It took Alistair a moment and bashful glance to respond. “I guess...,” a fidgeting hand found hers, “I’m just happy I’m here.”_

_Trevelyan’s lips parted into a smile, bright enough to rival the sun itself; wider and truer than Cullen could remember in far too long._

_“Oh, believe me,” she rose to her toes to brush her nose against his, “so am I.”_

Cullen sighed at the sudden memory of the day they’d moved in. The contrast couldn’t have been any more striking-  a woman at ease with herself at last, four years ago; now, shrunk into herself, a stranger in her own body once more.

Though nobody had spoken in minutes, her announcement rang in his ears, looming above their heads like a blade ready to fall.

While she sat paralysed, gaze devoid of emotion, Cullen dared to look sideways. Toes curled in his sandals, jaw clenched and brow creased under the visible weight of worry, Alistair never noticed the cautious peek. So Cullen took it upon himself to break the silence lest it suffocated them all.

“You’re pregnant?” The word tasted foreign, otherworldly, yet bore mysterious appeal. Alistair spun to face him, the motion urgent as if Cullen’s question had somehow turned notion into reality.

Finally she reacted, even the tilt of her chin laden with effort. Another small eternity passed, Cullen’s composure threatening to crumble under her stare, dark with agony as on the day they’d taken her arm. When she nodded it was with a sob, a grimace of an exhale that shook her slight frame.

Within a second the men stood by her side, ready to enclose her in their arms. But she stopped them, shaking her head vehemently, _violently,_ not ready to accept their comfort. “My herbs-“, another shake of her head. “What are we going to do?” When neither man managed a response she continued.

“We don’t even know who the fa-“ a hand flew over her mouth as she was wracked by a fit of tears, shudders and despair. This time they did sit, embracing her and each other, her face cradled between their chests.

Another silence fell upon them. Though not of the comfortable sort, echoing breaths, slow heartbeats and the rhythmic rise and fall of chests brought fragile calm. It wasn’t to last.

“It can’t be mine,” Alistair said over her head, his voice hollow.

She jumped, breaking their embrace. “Don’t”, she pleaded.

“It’s true,” Alistair insisted as he gestured vaguely, “it can’t be.”

Instinctively Cullen protested, as ever ready to defend Alistair from his never-ending self-depreciation. “You know it’s not impossible, even with the Taint.”

Alistair shook his head, blank expression a stoic shield against his own emotions. “It shouldn’t be me. I won’t live long enough.”

His lover’s grim insistence fuelled Cullen’s determination. “You’re a part of this, Alistair.” It was true. He was an equal, _essential_ element of their relationship, of their journey. More images danced before Cullen’s mind: _Alistair, dishevelled, appearing at Skyhold’s gates barely two days after learning of her injury; not a moment’s hesitation to use the Fereldan-Orlesian crisis to abdicate; holding hands at her bedside, day and night; Alistair handling her moods with gracious patience, offering kindness and comfort for insults and blows; disbanding the Inquisition while the once-king tended to its tired leader; Alistair finding her, tearing Cullen’s own shaving blade from her hand when it had just grazed her wrist; and none but Alistair signing the agreement to buy this house, their refuge after four holed-up months._

Cullen inhaled, but she spoke first.

“ _Please_. All I know is I need you both.” Her whisper’s quiet conviction tugged at Cullen’s heart. Alistair’s gaze dropped as he pulled her close once more. She leaned into him, resting her chin on a broad shoulder. At once Alistair sought her warmth, burying his face in her auburn tresses.

Watching his beloved cling to each other, Cullen weighed previously vague concepts in his mind if not on his tongue.

 _Child. Father._ Family.

Timid curiosity stoked, he found himself reaching for her yet-flat stomach, only to find Alistair’s hand already there. Without a look nor a second’s hesitation the men intertwined fingers, holding their woman; wrapping her in their bodies, their love.

\------------------------------------

_Pinot blanc is believing. Its solid aroma of lively fruit and mild spice embodies confidence in yourself and those you hold dear while a mildly sour aftertaste betrays your hope of being proven right._

The bottle emptied just as the first star sparkled against a growing blanket of ebony. Another few sips and Cullen would grant himself a night’s sleep- or as much as his reeling thoughts would permit. The vines hadn’t seen much of their owners today, for they’d been busy discussing, planning, encouraging. Nerves had been drained, mouths run dry from talking, but he’d walked away with a shallow courage in his chest.

From within emerged Alistair, sitting down in his usual spot opposite him.

“Is she resting?”

Alistair nodded, glass at his lips. That elegant nose twitched as he soaked up apples and flowers.

Cullen continued. “Had you told me last night what would happen today, I’d have called you a fool.”

A huff, a half-shake of the head and a thumb rubbing ginger stubble before Alistair raised his drink. “Congratulations, Papa.” He set the glass down with perhaps more force than intended.

“Likewise.” Though the word came hurried, Cullen meant it. “You know,” his gaze followed the pale yellow swirls in his glass, “I can’t tell how we’re going to fare through all this, but one thing I’m absolutely certain of.”

“What would that be?”

“You’re going to be a better father than you’ll ever give yourself credit for.”

Melancholy thinned Alistair’s smile, brought a bitter glint to his eyes before he averted them. Cullen wished to say more, to tell him how important, how valued he was. Alistair’s posture, the tight grip on his glass, however, cautioned him otherwise. The breeze had become more insistent as minutes passed, and goose bumps prickled on Cullen’s arms under its cool strokes. Alistair, too, was shivering, and they wordlessly agreed to retire. A quick clean-up, the rattling of keys and the strangely comforting creak of the back door ended a day that had brought so much change, fear and hope.

Whether from the sturdy white or the merciless quandaries plaguing his fatigued mind, Cullen’s way through the house was made in wobbly steps and he was glad to be reaching the bedroom.

A lone candle’s flicker illuminated just enough of his love’s face for his heart to swell with affection. There she was, arms spread out at her sides, lips parted as if sleep had claimed her on a sigh. Silken locks framed a face relaxed at last since her cry this morning had roused them all from happy complacency. Cullen could only hope the Fade was allowing her a few hours’ peace.

In amicable quiet they stripped down then took their places on either side of her. The light faded, soothing darkness grazing weary eyes. A streak of soot wafted above as Cullen let himself drift off.

_All was going to be well._

_…wasn’t it?_


	4. August (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which the smut happens. Among other things.

Change was upon them. The new and fresh lingered everywhere. Spring matured into summer, temperate warmth into scorching heat. From the workers’ quarters rang the inquisitive meows of a playful litter of kittens while melodic chirps sounded from the mighty oak by the cottage front. Humid evenings followed long days. Fields flourished with colour, sound and life.

Lady Trevelyan thrived. Dreaded nausea proved short-lived, and once past her third month she blossomed like nature herself. Sun-woven flecks of gold highlighted auburn tresses, and a pink hue grazed her cheeks. Each day Cullen would wake to find her a little more radiant, confident, glowing with maternity’s onset. No later than when her form began to round out in the midst of Solis was he unable to stop watching, feeling, _smelling_ her.

Time and again Cullen would grab her waist, pull her into his lap and hold her; evoke a giggle by offering a freshly picked flower; bury his face in her hair, inhaling her scent- pure, enchanting femininity.

Seeing his fellow father-to-be adjusting to the concept of parenthood proved equally enjoyable. Had Alistair initially spent their shared evenings staring into the distance, he seemed to shed more doubt with each conversation. Though still more hesitant in gaze and touch than Cullen, his every move around her was coined by cautious curiosity. Alistair would track, no, _predict_ her step, jump in to remove any potential obstacles from her path; tirelessly inquire about her wellbeing; seek permission with shy glances, shaky hands grazing upon her stomach as if to convince himself it was real.

Their night-time _proceedings_ , too, were affected by pregnancy’s wondrous novelties. Around her fourth month, Trevelyan’s appetite for food had returned, as had the hunger for her men. Hours upon indulgent hours were spent watching her writhe as they explored her growing curves and alert skin.  Each throaty moan, every lustful sigh would stoke their greed. Alistair and Cullen would use lips, mouths, fingers, noses to tickle and tease, lick and suckle; tracing her stomach’s timid swell; relishing her squirms as they’d lave at plump, delightfully sensitive breasts; rolling on their tongues her nectar, rich, creamy allure. Nights weren’t over until they were lying entangled, sweaty and weak, and mornings would start with giddy reminiscence and sweet kisses.

Just now Cullen found his thoughts wandering from the grapes before him to yesterday’s memories, and he decided to go for lunch. Squinting into the high sun, he stood on his toes to make out Alistair a few rows of vines ahead. As he walked over, the warm breeze had him pausing, closing his eyes to inhale peace and calm. It was these moments when his mind was the sharpest, allowing impartial reflections on the path they’d embarked on. It would have been downright preposterous to assume the three could have carried on in their merry ways and forever avoid pregnancy, or indeed responsibility. With fresh air’s clarity and the roughest weeks behind them, Cullen felt _ready_ , confident to tackle this new stage of life with the two people dearest to him.

His musings ended when Alistair spotted him, peeking up from underneath the wide straw hat Luís’ wife had made. “Was that my stomach or yours?”

Their hands brushed as Alistair joined him. “I do hope lunch involves cheese,” Alistair mused as they passed lush green, dotted with patches of ripening purple.

Cullen snickered. “You do realise you say that every day?”

Alistair nodded, the sparkle in his eye betraying his earnest expression. “I do, and every day my wish is granted. Hence why should I stop saying it?”

Once arrived in their cottage’s cooling shade, Alistair took off his hat. Trevelyan had swapped fieldwork for administration and food preparation with a surprising lack of reluctance and would be awaiting them.

As the kitchen door creaked open a homely scent of fresh bread welcomed them. An inviting assortment of cold meat and dairy produce sat spread out on earthenware dishes.

Cracking his knuckles at the sight, Alistair was about to sit down when they spotted their love slumped on a chair at the oak table’s end. Shoulders sunk in defeat, she never noticed their arrival, all focussed on the crumpled letter clutched between her trembling fingers.

“What is it, dear?” Cullen sat down beside her while Alistair stood close at her back, a six-foot wall of concern and protection.

A crippling silence passed, ominous and heavy with worry. “My family,” she managed eventually, staring down at the table as if the heavy wood’s intricate patterns offered answers. “You know I told them about my,” a downwards flicker of her eyes, “ _condition_.”

Alistair’s uneasy frown went unnoticed by Cullen, who was nodding, wide-eyed, urging her to continue.

At last she looked up, emerald gaze tired and defeated. “They want me to marry.”

For a second all sound but Cullen’s own heartbeat drowned out. Once he’d caught himself a quick glance revealed Alistair frozen to the spot, face unreadable; the hand stroking her hair motionless.

Gears rattled in Cullen’s mind, questions eager to take shape. She knew, of course, sneaking slow peek over her shoulder. Her voice rang small and shameful.

“They don’t even know there’s three of us living here.”

Again Cullen was too focussed on her and his own reflections to catch Alistair’s quiet huff, the bitter purse of his mouth. Caught up in his urge to help and solve, he never considered impact or consequence before speaking.

“I’d already asked your parents,” he dared to smile as she gasped, “before you defeated Corypheus.”

“You did?” Awe brightened her face, incredulous joy creasing her brow.

Cullen nodded, taking her hand in his. “I’d wanted to be sure in case there were… severe injuries and things had to happen quickly.” The dark suggestion didn’t disturb her, for tears brimmed in her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep in a happy sob.

Breathing a kiss on her knuckles, he continued. “I never brought it up because afterwards-,“ Either Cullen stopped himself or Alistair’s sharp intake of breath cut him off.

“Because afterwards _I_ barged in?” Alistair looked right through Cullen, his snide insinuation rousing Trevelyan from her chair to face him.

Cullen said a silent curse upon himself. “That’s not what I meant, Alistair, and you know it.” His hurried affirmation earned him but a snort.

Trevelyan cut in- quiet, calm and laden with conviction. “You sacrificed everything to be with us. And we need you.” She reached for his hand to place it on her stomach but he withdrew, shaking his head.

“You don’t _need_ me,” Alistair hissed, about to stalk off.  Cullen caught him by the wrist.

“You saved her life,” he pressed through gritted teeth, “ _and_ mine along with it. Like it or not, you’re an equal part of this relationship. We couldn’t live here without you.”  
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be just fine without me, _Commander_.” Breaking loose, Alistair stepped back, creating distance. His flexed fists, angled shoulders and determined scowl bore that dangerous Theirin stubbornness. “It was good while it lasted, but let’s face it,” a spiteful glance at both, “beyond _bedtime_ I was never more than a third wheel. Nice to have around but entirely superfluous when you think about it.”

She was crying now, braid and resolve coming loose with the violent shakes of her head. “That’s not true,” she whimpered, seeking his gaze he kept averting, “this is your child, _our_ child, and-“

“It’s _n o t_ my child!” The sudden bellow shook the room, its venomous force reverberating deep in Cullen’s chest. As Alistair’s footfalls echoed off the stone walls Trevelyan sank to the ground, fists bashing terracotta tiles as sobs wracked her slumped figure.

Hurrying to her side, Cullen cradled her head against his chest. Cold dread crept up his spine as he wondered just how much he was going to regret his thoughtless words.

\------------------------------------

_Schnapps is suffering. Gulp after lonely gulp of sweet oblivion runs a burning trail down your throat, eating away at your stomach along with a world of self-pity._

The single moth’s dance around the candle’s flicker had Cullen’s eyes straining, his head aching with alcohol-dimmed concentration.

Another mouthful of clear stickiness, and he slammed down his glass with a mumbled expletive. As unlike him as solitary drinking was, as great was his need to lose himself in the pungent stuff.

From within, the sobbing had at last ceased after Cullen had given her some sleep-inducing tea, and all the kisses he could find in himself. The skin on her hands had been broken, her throat rare from screaming and pounding on the locked door. When Alistair had emerged with his pack he’d left without a word; he’d simply turned his back on their home, their _life_ , and strode off. But the notion of him truly being gone was just sinking in with yet another swig.

Remorse gripped at Cullen’s heart and mind, and for the hundredth time that day he cursed himself- for babbling on so foolishly; never sensing Alistair’s lingering doubt, telling himself all would be fine instead; for not showing with his every word, gesture and touch how much Alistair mattered, how utterly lost they’d be without him.

One last shot and he rose, only for his world to spin as a sharp pain shot up his temples. Had he not clutched the empty chair, _Alistair’s chair_ , he’d have fallen, like their lives were falling apart. As he stood there in the dark, the sky opened with a roll of thunder. Warm, fragrant rain drenched his clothes and hair, running down his back in thin streams. But Cullen remained, white knuckles gripping worn wood and cast iron; he wept, wailing hopelessly pathetic half-words into the night.

_What were they going to do?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't gonna let them off the hook _that_ easily...  
>  What do you think is going to happen? Let me know! (^^)  
> 


	5. Kingsway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which Cullen is desperate for some good news.

_The armchair creaked from the tired weight sinking into its worn seat. The thunderstorm’s dim sky and lightning darkened shadows under barely-hazel eyes, deepening the lines wreathing them. Ginger strands, growing into a mane, sat glistening, and a clear drop rolled off a reddened nose’s tip._

_Cullen stood in silence, weary gaze resting upon his guest as he poured a snifter of brandy. Alistair nodded, a quick swig unlocking a deep exhale, his first since he’d arrived._

_They drank, still not needing words. Swerving the glass, Cullen welcomed the bitter aroma rising from small waves of amber. Finely crafted Dwarven crystal hit aged wood as another hearty gulp burned a pleasantly irate trail down his throat._

_“So,” Cullen’s eyes sought Alistair’s._

_“So,” Alistair aped, reiterating their private joke of carefree days._

_“You arrived sooner than expected.”_

_The king’s chuckle would have been humorous if not for his tightly pressed lips, the frown knitting his brow. “I’ve never ridden like this. If Eamon saw-“ He cut himself off. “How is she, then?”_

_The same hesitancy that lowered Alistair’s voice into a mumble twisted in Cullen’s stomach. He opened then closed his mouth. Zig-zag glances across dusty rows of books didn’t help form an answer, so the glass rose back to his lips. “Awful,” the word rang hollow as his chest had felt ever since the Inquisitor’s return._

_Alistair’s chin tilted, one brow rising in an unspoken question._

_Cullen’s head dropped between aching shoulders as he leaned on his desk. “She’s resting now, from the herbs, but-“ Again words evaded him, again his bookshelf proved a tempting refuge for bloodshot eyes. But Alistair’s stare followed his, urging him on. Cullen sighed. “When awake she’ll go between crying and screaming, like I’ve never seen.” He bit his lip at the memory of her distorted wails, numbing one pain with another. “How long will you be staying?”_

_Alistair leaned forward, setting down his drink with a calm that had Cullen flinching. “I’m not planning on going back.”_

_“You’re_ what _?” Cullen’s glass would have shattered on wooden floor had he not placed it on the desk a second ago._

 _All-too familiar stubbornness carried in the light crisp of his baritone. “I mean it. She’s lost her arm- I can’t_ not _be here with her.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d understand.”_

_Hapless incredulity had Cullen’s pitch rising. “You’re King of Ferelden! You can hardly just leave.”_

_Alistair nodded with the patience of someone who had an explanation ready. “You see,” he stood, rounding the table in measured steps, “The country is up to its neck in conflict. It’s been brewing for a while and only got worse after that blighted Council. A little more diplomatic idiocy from our side and at least the Orlesian end of it could well blow up. My reputation as king has already been tainted.” A gleam lit up his eyes, and Cullen hissed as understanding set in. “The only way some of those disgruntled baguette-munchers may refrain from calling to arms would be for me to-“_

_“…_ abdicate _,” Cullen finished, shaking his head as he gawked._

_Alistair gave him a grin, that mischievous one he hadn’t seen in far too long. “Very savvy, Commander.”_

_“But who-“_

_A slight raise of Alistair’s right hand,_ a leader’s gesture _, cut him off. “Someone, somewhere will be found. There’ll be a way.” Conviction lowered his tone as he closed the final foot of distance between them. “There’s_ always _a way.”_

 _Cullen could only swallow, only stare as his mind reeled from the magnitude of Alistair’s plan to give everything up- for her, for_ them _. Overwhelmed by the notion, he diverted his eyes and the conversation. “Do you want to see her now?”_

_Alistair’s glance was as clear as his voice. “She’s what I came here for.”_

\------------------------------------

Frustration creased Cullen’s brow as he crumpled the letter in his hand, pressing out a curse under his breath. Though he’d always deemed Leliana trustworthy, approaching her with discretion had been challenging- and the result devastating.

No leads, no sightings- _not a single trace of Alistair in all of Ferelden_.

Hot-headed agitation twisted into sickening worry. The mere notion of Alistair, _his Alistair_ , coming to harm knotted in his stomach and pounded in his chest. His fist balled at the lunchtime bell’s chirp from the workers’ quarters, at the prospect of facing _her_ , _now_.

A soft nudge at his leg startled him out of his broodings, and a clueless squawk was all the comment he could muster at the scene unfolding before his eyes.

The patched-up leather ball had bounced off his calf and was rolling along the arid path on a flimsy cloud of dust - trailed by insistent pitter-patter. Barely the height of three cheese wheels, the boy blubbered a melody of non-words as he chased his toy.

“Olha, Bernardo,” Luís caught up just as the child was about to disappear into a row of vines. Chubby arms and legs flapped about as he hoisted the curly bundle up. He set him down with a group of women taking shelter from the sun under a row of pear trees. The boy’s blabber blended with their chatter as Luís half-limped back to Cullen’s side.

“I apologise, Senhor- my grandson is too excited to look where he walks,” he offered from underneath his hat’s rim.

“No problem at all,” Cullen waved off, “the little fellow just roused me from my thoughts.”

Luís nodded as ever-keen eyes took in the crumpled paper between Cullen’s fingers. “He _will_ come back, you know.”

The dishevelled letter described lazy twirls as it floated towards the ground while Cullen stood frozen. “What are you-“

Patient smile widening, Luís motioned at the wobbly bench lining the edge of the field of vines. “Please.”

Though never ceasing to eye the man up Cullen followed suit. Once they’d sat down Luís took of his hat, exposing a near-bald head to the late summer’s yet-persistent warmth. Worrying the worn material in his lap, he looked straight ahead where Bernardo was now pursuing the cat.

“When I was young I served in the Antivan war. I had to leave behind my wife. She was beautiful, almost as much as she,” he gestured at the house, “and I missed her every day, wrote hundreds of letters.” The words came slow and deliberate as he gazed down at the tired straw.

Cullen nodded, if more out of politeness than understanding.

“When I returned, wounded and terrified, she’d born a child. It wasn’t mine,” Cullen took a sharp breath. “I was angry, so angry,” Luís’ voice thinned out as he shook his head, still staring at his hands. “I left, ran away. Wandered the country for a year, drinking, full of hate and rage.” He looked at Cullen then, deep lines in leathered skin a testimony to his struggles, wisdom a glint in chestnut eyes. “But eventually I came to my senses.” He chuckled, perhaps at his own foolishness. “I loved the woman, couldn’t be without her. And I realised I could love the child.” Cullen’s lips had parted, his eyebrows risen as he was listening intently. “So I went back to my wife and we raised the boy together. He calls me Father, and I know I made the right choice.”

Cullen’s heart beat up into his ears, his mouth widening in awe. Two weathered fingers tapped at his knee. “He _will_ come back.” A pause. “You are quite fond of him.”

A flush rose up Cullen’s cheeks. “I-“

The smile widened into a grin. “It’s all right, senhor. Have faith in Alistair.”

Sunlight danced on his bronzed forehead as Luís got up.

“Thank you,” Cullen said, voice thick with emotion as they shook hands.

Before he left Luís bent, slowly. Cullen leaned in to help but was stopped by the wave of a hand. Luís pressed the forgotten letter against Cullen’s chest. “Now go to your woman and I’ll go to mine, yes?”

Cullen, nodded, a smile on his face and warmth in his heart as the Antivan walked off with a cackle. Newfound courage tingled through Cullen’s limbs as light-footed steps carried him past the near-bare vines.

The natural path’s soft bumps transitioned into cobblestone’s sharper impact on thin soles, and Cullen squinted into the old oak’s crown, spotting the first few flecks of golden among its leaves. Though colder days lay ahead of them and soon vines and trees would sit barren, nature was still celebrating itself, its life. He would have inhaled deep into his chest and picked up on the faint scent of autumn weaving into the day- had it not been for the shatter of a hundred pieces of glass droning from the cottage; a rolling wave of destruction spilling alarm and fear into the peaceful courtyard.

The letter slipped from his fingers once more as Cullen called out and ran inside, almost stumbling over the sharp turns that brought him to the back room.

Standing at the table amid a sea of empty, broken bottles was his love, glaring disdain at her wooden arm. Lips thin and white, eyes dark, she was biting back a sob, or maybe a scream.

Pointed edges of green and brown stung through his flimsy loafers as Cullen hurried to catch her in his arms, clutching her rounding form against his chest, _suddenly heavy again_.

She cried then, whimpering sloppy _no_ s and I _can’t_ s against his dampening shoulder as sobs and despair shook her.

“Shush, dear,” he mumbled into auburn tresses, holding on to her, to hope and sanity. “It will be all right.”

His body’s every fibre willed it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bernardo is the son of our Portugese neighbours. Luis is his dad. As always comments are hugely welcome!


	6. Early Harvestmere (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which we witness ceremonies and confessions.

_Chianti is commitment. Layers of wood and spice weigh down on your tongue in full-bodied solemnity. Fruity aftertastes, sweet and bitter all at once, hint at the life you’re promising one another._

It was a small wedding, open only to close family. The village chantry had been decked out with dainty bows of yellow satin and the season’s last daisies, the symbol of simplicity the couple had chosen to live in. Cullen had to grin, however, at the arrangement of Chrysanthemums none only his mother-in-law could have snuck in- a yet- hopeful token of wealth.

Since he had organised most of the proceedings his bride was oblivious as to what would await her at the altar. As she approached under the marble-sculpted eyes of Andraste herself, a lace-clad arm was hooked into her father’s and a silken cascade of ivory embraced her maternal figure. When they reached the chapel’s front, her demure expression dissolved into a happy sob.

None other than Leliana, former Chantry sister, had been summoned as cleric. Their colleague of old found visible joy in performing the rites, reciting chants and verses with the purest of smiles. Trevelyan’s quiet tears endeared her audience, who believed her moved by her groom’s efforts. Cullen himself, however, knew, what she was lamenting. From the sermon’s anecdotes, from the room, from their much-applauded kiss a dear presence was sorely missing.

Likewise, the celebration at the vineyard recalled memories of Alistair in every detail- whether the band’s cheerful Remigold, the exquisitely crafted wines or the fine assortment of cheese. Bride and groom laughed, praised gifts and songs, posed for portraits and held each other’s hand tight as if to soothe yearning’s ache.

Nevertheless, a merry feast was had- so, merry indeed, the party found themselves running low on drink.

Once Bann Trevelyan had finished his speech, wishing the couple a wealth of fertility and fortitude, Cullen snuck to the back room in search of replenishments. Kneeling before an oak bottle shelf examining vintages, he never heard the footsteps.

“Cullen?”

“Mia- _ah_!” Tumbling to stand, he rubbed his temple, throbbing after banging against the counter.

“Still ever-so eager, my little brother,” Mia chuckled, her dress rustling as she stepped closer. “How are you?”

Though his jaw was beginning to hurt, Cullen couldn’t possibly smile too much- not on this day. “Great- I mean,” he nodded towards the door, “I’m marrying a woman who’s more than I could have hoped for - at my own winery where we’ll soon be a family. What more could I want?”

“Absolutely,” Mia agreed. Copper eyes narrowed, the skin around them crinkling into thin lines, more pronounced than his own. “Yet it seems there’s something not quite right.” Leaning against the sturdy table in the room’s centre, she studied Cullen as he shook his head.

“I can’t say there is, I-“

Crossing her arms, Mia’s lips widened into a wise, all-too familiar smile. “I know you, Cullen.”  Her calm gaze searched his face, registering the increasing discomfort as he avoided eye contact. A sharp inhale preceded her next words.

“There’s someone missing, isn’t there?”

Shocked silent, Cullen could only gawk back at her.

Mia waggled a finger. “I knew there was.” Again her eyes darted across his blushing face. “Who might it be, I wonder?”

The question may have been directed at Mia’s pondering self, but Cullen responded, glancing at the floor. “Someone dear.” He looked up at her, speaking in a choked whisper. “Very dear.”

A slow nod. “I can see that. Is there a chance she’ll be back?”

Cullen’s mouth opened then closed as he studied the wooden clock’s dangling pendant behind her.

Mia took a step towards him, eyes searching his once more. “It’s no she, is it?”

Shoulders sagging, Cullen grimaced as if in pain, shaking his head. “I miss him,” his voice broke over the desperate words. But while he was struggling to keep the corners of his mouth up his sister was already shielding him with her embrace.

“Oh Cullen,” she mumbled into his finery’s collar, holding her brother’s towering frame close as he  wept against her shoulder. Reaching up, she raked patient fingers over the nape of his neck in a gesture recalling scraped knees and broken toys. “I want you to be happy,” she affirmed, “no one deserves it more.”

They stood for a while, bathed in the descending sun’s hue of gold. Though Cullen’s tears had dried he stayed in his sister’s soothing embrace for another moment before looking up.

“Thank you, Mia.”

She shook her head. “Thank _you_ for entrusting me with this. But know this: he _will_ come back. If he knows you like I do, like _she_ does,” she gestured towards the main room, “he’ll have no choice but to return.”

Again Cullen’s eyes were stinging, his heart pounding. “I’ll pray to the Maker that you’re right.”

“You’ll see,” Mia smiled in that unshakeably optimistic manner of hers. “Let’s go back inside- you’ve a dance to perform.”

“Indeed I do,” Cullen grabbed a few dark bottles and followed her to be greeted by cheers and applause.

They danced, twirling around each other until they were dizzy and giddy. The feast went on until the wee hours, wine and spirits flowing; jest and good wishes all around and hugs exchanged until the last of the party left for the guest quarters.

That night they loved each other, feverishly. Cullen recited their vows against his wife’s skin, whispering of rich and poor, sickness and health into her breast as she clutched, _bruised_ him. Hands and lips, moans and kisses struggled to fill the void until both passed out, tickled by the first rays of pink mingling into the fading night sky.

Weeks passed, and marital life lent new reverence to casual touches and looks. Autumn cascaded over the estate, painting trees, fields and vines in brilliant tones of red and orange. Trevelyan’s form filled out, the heavy oval of her stomach and plump breasts a testament to her child’s healthy growth.

One night in the early days of Firstfall Cullen woke to a cool and quiet room devoid of any movement. Having checked to his right to find his wife safe and asleep, he blinked through drowsy confusion, listening for what might have woken him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark his ears, too, awoke, yet they found nothing but silence. Frowning, he lay back down. A few heartbeats later he shot up, roused by what had to be a noise from outside. When he heard it again Cullen had thrown on pants and a shirt. This time he identified it.

_A knock._

Cullen grabbed his sword, lifting it from the armoire with the silent precision a warrior doesn’t unlearn. As he ghosted through house, heart and mind racing, two more knocks followed, louder as he neared the entrance. A breath drawn from the bottom of his stomach lent him composure to grab the handle and brace himself as the door swung open.

A lungful of cold air greeted him, but it was the sight before him that froze Cullen’s blood in utter shock.

The patched-up woollen cloak veiled wide shoulders while a rugged pack had been dropped to the ground. Even with only the moon’s faint beam to guide his eyes Cullen recognised the elegantly pointed nose, the ginger stubble and the sheepish grin.

“Remember me?”


	7. Firstfall (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which what has always belonged together is finally joined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's special.

_Sparkling wine is sensuality. Delicate bubbles caress your tongue, leaving in their wake a prickle tempting as a lover’s eager lips roaming your skin._

Three days and nights the lovers spent in their bedchambers, absorbed in each other. They made up for quiet mornings, lonely evenings and months of bitter regret; each flick of a tongue, every brush of a finger apology and affirmation. 

On occasion one of them would emerge half-dressed, patter towards the kitchen, return with their arms full and disappear once more. 

Alistair discovered with awe, guided by Cullen’s knowing touch, how their love had changed. Her form had rounded out, once-rosy nipples stood dark and pronounced, and every inch of her skin was so responsive he never wanted to stop worshipping her.

They loved her slowly, gently, holding her with cautious hands, keen eyes noting her heavy breast' jiggle. Cullen found equal joy in Alistair’s fresh exploration, observing the path of his lover’s palms over her maternal tummy and his lips' trail between her thighs; savouring the groan her flavour drew from him. 

With ten weeks left to her pregnancy, each crest of pleasure lulled her to sleep. The men, however, didn’t rest, _could not_ remain idle. They embraced, kissed, sucked on each other, a feverish tangle of limbs rocking away separation's bitter ache; learning each other anew with tight-fisted pumps and languid thrusts. 

While skin cooled and heartbeats slowed the lovers would lie in lazy comfort, fingers intertwined and feet wrestling. Whispers, jests and giggles continued conversations their bodies had begun. 

By the fourth morning they had a plan.

\------------------------------------

Leliana never hesitated when Cullen summoned her again, and not for the first time did he wonder how much of a secret his relationship truly had been.

Once more the chapel hummed with voices, rustles and life. This time, however, their audience consisted of a surprise congregation of loyal workers dressed in their finest garb. Young Bernardo struggled to hold the wicker basket his grandfather had entrusted him with. Yet the proudest smile spanned his cheeks as he stomped along the aisle decorating the carpet in fragrant petals. 

Luís sat with Cullen, and they watched his love stand before the priestess once more, accompanied by the man who held his heart. Compassion and goodwill rang clear in her voice as Leliana repeated the rites, incorporating into her sermon Alistair's veteran past and his service to Ferelden. On the front bench Cullen was fidgeting, curling his toes in growing excitement as they neared the vows. Delight bloomed in his chest when Leliana bade the couple face each other. He mouthed the questions to himself, breath hitching when Alistair answered with a hoarse, almost incredulous “I do.”

It was her turn then, and she threw a giddy grin at Cullen, grasping Alistair’s hand tighter.

Just as Leliana reiterated the formalities, something caught Cullen’s attention.

_A prod._

Beside him Luís was patting his thigh, chin motioning towards the chapel front. Dumbfounded, Cullen gawked, about to ask the man’s intention. But the Antivan only raised his eyebrows, nodding at the altar with stubborn vehemence.

And he understood.

_Do you take this man who now holds your hand to be your true and wedded husband…_

Cullen rose.

_...and do you solemnly promise before the Maker and these witnesses to love, cherish, honour and protect him…_

The click of polished shoes echoed crisply, full of spirit as three, four firm strides brought Cullen towards the couple. 

_... to cleave unto him forever until death shall part you?_

“I do.”

Instinct defies propriety; love knows no bounds. Under a collective gasp the Commander of old stood with his Inquisitor and king. A steady hand enveloped dainty, gloved fingers to his left and weathered digits on his right. Cullen's smile, bright as they'd ever seen it, allowed no doubts. And when he spoke his baritone floated up time-honoured mosaic walls, the proud conviction of his words filling the chapel’s dome.

“As do I.”

Something flashed in Leliana’s eyes- perhaps the hint of a tear, perhaps a joy left behind in her youth. “Then I hereby pronounce you husbands and wife.” Gentle lines around crinkled with a smile as she all but sang, "Now you may kiss". 

And they did, all three of them. Smiling lips slanted upon each other easily as ever and hands smoothed over beloved backs as if guided by the Maker himself. The jubilant choir of dozens of voices overpowered the whispers they shared, their very own private vows. Behind them hats, scarves, even bags flew up towards the ceiling.

The celebrations resounded beyond the hills, stretching well into the morning. Barrel after expensive barrel was rolled in, accompanying a feast so large the buffet tables extended into the hallway. Generations united on the dancefloor, performing Antivan, Fereldan, Ostwickian and altogether nonsensical moves. The trio of _guitarreros_ had to string their instruments anew after hours of playing, and at some point the bride and grooms tossed aside their shoes and danced barefooted. 

When the three stumbled into bed at last, feet aching and voices raw, a light greeted them through the far window, filling the room with an almost blinding glow. Squinting, they settled under the covers and held hands, assured the Maker was smiling upon their union.

\------------------------------------

The newlyweds spoke, made up and planned their life together. They banished doubts, quelled each other’s fears and came up with solutions- be it a night-time shift system or a practical crib design. Jests accompanied their days- on names, resemblances and mannerisms. Trevelyan never tired of hearing Cullen warn Alistair he’d be watching the larder, ready to defend it from potentially two lovers of fine dairy produce.

Winter’s onset transformed nights on the terrace into cosy hours before the fireplace. Spiced reds replaced zesty whites, and rich Bries and Stiltons took the place of tangy hard cheeses.

In the final minutes of a late Firstfall Tuesday the flames crackled jovially, like a third voice to the cheerful conversation. Feet on the seat, Cullen and Alistair were facing each other at opposite ends of the couch. Their cheeks’ glow rivalled the full-bodied pinot noir they’d been enjoying.

“So,” Cullen spoke through fading cackles, “you’re certain you’ll be able to stomach those napkins through no other merit than having camped with that smelly dwarf?” Shaking his head at the absurdity of his own question, he chuckled before emptying his glass.

“Absolutely,” his husband nodded. “I wish I could’ve bottled that vile stench just so people would believe me.”

Cullen snorted. “Thank you, but I’ll pass. Though I am afraid you’ll have to wait another couple of months to demonstrate these skills of yours.” 

Thick droplets painted his goblet’s crystal insides as Alistair gestured, waggling a meaningful finger. “Six weeks and five days, to be precise.”

“I’m glad you’re keeping track, because to me time just seems to fly-“ A movement cut him off, harsh and sudden. A spill of crimson crept up the rug’s fluffy woollen tufts as Alistair’s glass shattered on the ground.

Cold dread crawled into Cullen’s bones, banishing alcohol’s warm buzz. He spun around, horrors of all sorts infiltrating his mind. 

And there she was, barely standing up. A weak hand grasped the doorframe, keeping her on bare legs. The nightshirt had slipped off one shoulder, rendering her thin and meagre despite her state. A chestnut lock had fallen into her damp forehead, almost black against bizarrely pale skin.

As the men rushed to her side something caught their eye. A small puddle was forming at her feet, growing with clear, steady drips from between her legs. Fear clutched at Cullen’s heart, a demon’s claw set to crush their newfound happiness with a single flex. He shook his head, reaching towards her, but it was Alistair who voiced his panic in a strangled whisper, _No, no, Maker please, no_.

The touch of Cullen’s hand appeared to rouse her from apathy, for her eyes met his. When she spoke, her voice rang tiny, lost and utterly powerless.

“Help me.”


	8. Paralysis (TW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which it's life or death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning here for mention of blood and early/complicated birth (no detailed descriptions)

_Worry is sobriety; a stomach filled only with apprehension’s bitter acid. It eats away at your resolve, your hopes, leaving sickening emptiness and nothing else._

Cullen had always thought himself a pacer. Whether in Kirkwall, Skyhold or elsewhere, crises small and large would have him strutting back and forth, arms behind his back, grim stare targeting an unassuming wall or door. Steady strides had kept his mind and limbs agile, soothed his nerves and shortened the wait for resolution.

Yet here he was, sat on the rickety old hallway bench for so long his buttocks had gone numb hours ago. Any other problem and he’d have been dashing about, spouting ever new ideas or barking orders at anyone who'd listen. But this worst of all catastrophes, the looming threat of two dear lives, had strangled Cullen's courage and frozen his limbs.

Banished to the hallway, populated with two dimly flickering lamps, he’d become a stranger in his own house. Shut out from the master bedroom, the occasional muffled noise provided his only clues as to his love’s fate. And each scattered fragment of hushed words, every faint clatter summoned ghostly shadows of his worst fears, even the most minuscule sound a reaper’s axe waiting to strike.

His husband, however, appeared determined to make up for Cullen's apathy. Snappy steps across oak floors formed rhythmic knocks, accentuated by the odd huff. Cullen lost count of the number of rounds Alistair had completed, stoic repetitions of the same aimless motions. By now he predicted the dip of Alistair's chin preceding the sharp turn as he passed the bench; the _swish_ when he'd turn on the ball of his foot; the sigh accompanying his strides away from Cullen. The frown at the brass clock occurred ever less frequently as if Alistair’s own resolve was waning. Though Cullen found the predictable movements almost soothing, he broke their silence as he would every few hours.

"Alistair," the name gravelled on his dry tongue, and he cleared his throat.

No response, more pacing.

"Alistair- _darling_." Cullen grabbed a fidgeting hand on his husband’s next stride.

Almost tumbling from the abrupt stop, Alistair drew a hissing breath, so sharp it hurt Cullen's teeth. Alistair blinked as though ripped from a deep sleep. "What?"

Cullen closed a second hand around the other man's, thumbs rubbing gentle circles onto his inner wrist. His tongue flicked out to lick lips chapped from thirst before his gaze met eyes as weary as his own. "Are you going to stop pacing?"

At once the restless energy fuelling Alistair’s strides rushed into hunching shoulders and narrowing eyes. "Why would I stop?" Alistair's voice rose as he gestured at the locked chambers as if his wandering was helping proceedings.

Cullen's brow pinched, his heart clenching with sympathy. "Because you're tiring yourself out." His right hand encircled Alistair's forearm, stroking empathy down its heavy length.

A green spark of defiance flashed in amber eyes, and Cullen braced himself. But then wide shoulders sagged, a whole torso slumped on a shuddering exhale, and a parched bottom lip extended. Silence ensued, laden with unspoken anguish.

"I know," Alistair whispered at last. “I feel so,” his eyes flickered between Cullen's as he pursued the right words, “… _powerless_.” A half-hearted gesture towards the door and Alistair’s body sagged forward as he sank to his knees. “She could be dying in there, as could our child. And I can’t,” a sob, “I can’t do anything.”

Cullen was going to find calming words. He wanted to run shaky fingers through tousled ginger fluff, down to the nape of Alistair’s neck where it was growing out in little half-curls.

But when Alistair’s head dropped on a whimper, face hitting Cullen's lap, all Cullen could do was to press the softest kiss to his husband's cheek.

Time passed in a blur, a string of moments defined by patient strokes of dry hands and quiet shushes tickling stubbly jaws. Cullen listened to Alistair’s breath as it won out over the sobs. Nose nestled in a mop of soft hair, he inhaled fragile reassurance along with sandalwood and spice.

They would have remained there, might have found sleep even, had the door to their right not opened. Anxiety’s fresh burst rushed through their limbs, banishing sluggishness along with any solace. Alistair shot up, nearly toppling over backwards while Cullen ignored the crackle his legs gave as he rose.

A shadow heralded the appearance of the older of the two midwives. Short and stocky with her hair in a bun, she would have looked endearing if not for the perpetual purse of her lips, the frown wrinkling her forehead.

When stood before the men she adjusted her glasses, clearing her throat. Sweat's tangy aroma invaded Cullen's lungs, sending a burst of tears to his eyes. His stare dropped to where the midwife’s hands sat folded across her front, not concealing a sprinkling of stains on the worn uniform.

_Blood._

Myriad questions threatened to break out of Cullen, but like so often, it was Alistair who articulated them, pressing for the answers they both feared. “What’s happening? How is she — how are _they_?”

Again the woman pushed the glasses up her nose with a weathered finger, the delay doing nothing to help Cullen’s unease. She looked first Alistair then him in the eye. The steely-grey disillusion in her gaze, the wariness built from countless tragedies, tore at his insides, clutching at his heart.

“She’s been in labour a day and a half. It’s weakened her,” a long exhale, another push at the glasses, “ _considerably_.”

“What does that mean?” Alistair's baritone pressed out his frustration before softening to a frightened mumble. “Will she live?”

She sighed, whether with impatience or resignation. “You know she went early. Six weeks is no small feat. We’re trying our best in there, but —“

“ _Will she live?_ ” The sudden rise in volume seemed to shake the quiet hallway’s walls, startling Cullen. When the midwife merely frowned, Alistair’s pitch climbed to a strained bellow. Hairs rose on the back of his neck, eyebrows twisting in a scowl Cullen struggled to remember seeing. “I’m Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden. This is my wife you’re talking about, and you’re going to make sure she lives!”

Stunned at the outburst, the midwife threw a glance at Cullen, then Alistair, who clearly wasn’t satisfied.

“Do you _h e a r_ me?!”

“I did, Ser — Your Majesty,” a hurried bow, “please be assured we’re doing everything in our power. Do keep her in your prayers and hope the Maker will show her mercy.” As soon as the words had left her mouth, the woman curtsied, about to spin around and escape their demands. Cullen’s question stopped her.

“What of the child?”

The midwife bit her lip, fingers interlacing again, and Cullen recognised her expression — not impatience but _sorrow_.

“Sers,” she shook her head, eyes roaming the ground, “this is a very early babe. We’ll do well to save the mother, but —“

“Ulla, come quick!” The clanking of instruments accentuated the other nurse's call. And a wail — _hers_ , unspeakable pain in a single long note.

“I’m sorry,” the woman muttered, already on her way. Cullen and Alistair rushed behind her, but the door slammed shut with a hollow bang, once again reducing them to a helpless audience.

Cullen gritted his teeth, a clammy palm pounding weakly against unrelenting wood. He didn't get to repeat the motion, for Alistair's fingers closed around his wrist, pulling Cullen into him. The press of sinewy arms crushed Cullen into a heaving chest, sent Alistair's galloping heartbeat resounding in cold shivers down his side.

Alistair's voice was shaky, thin with terror. "She can't die. She can't." And Cullen's own arms tightened their grip, fingers marking Alistair's tense back as they stood trembling against each other, listening out for a word, a sign, _anything_.

The only thing more harrowing than their wife’s piercing shriek was the dead silence that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one more chapter to go... happily ever after or bittersweet ending?  
> Let me know your thoughts if you like!


	9. Late Cloudreach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which our story ends where it started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do yourselves a favour and check out the amazing pieces of art [I've commissioned and been gifted for this piece . ](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/161247589780/summer-wine-masterpost)  
> This latest chapter comes with a [wonderful image by staciewilkerson. ](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/163675821573/summer-wine-final-chapter)  
>  **But now: Final chapter! Happily ever after or bittersweet epilogue?!**

_Riesling is reminiscence; tart acidity evoking past struggles then giving way to the fruity fullness of your sweetest memories. But it is also rejuvenation; the new vintage's bubbly tingle leaving you refreshed and ready for whatever the Maker may have planned._

Describing a gentle swerve in its crystal confines, the wine sported the same pale yellow as the daffodils lining the terrace’s edge. Pear and citrus wafted upwards in an invisible cloud. Cullen’s nose twitched as he inhaled a third time, discovering fresh notes in the fragrant bouquet.

Stretching out in his chair, he was grateful for the pillow at the backrest soothing his tired limbs.  Weathered fingers traced the table-top’s fading mosaic as he squinted into the evening sun’s veil of gold enveloping hills and vines.

A movement caught his attention, and he set down the glass to shield his eyes. From the distance a figure approached in steady strides. As they closed in, Cullen made out the cotton dress embracing a slim though no longer frail frame. Stepping out of the field and onto the path, his love waved upon spotting him. The auburn high bun she wore nowadays bounced with her light-footed steps.

Cullen pulled back the chair to his right. “How are you, dear?” he asked, completing his own inspection regardless. Though those fine lines sat deeper, her cheekbones more pronounced, her skin still radiated and she held a firm posture.

She reclined into her seat, her head tilting as her eyes fell closed. Taking Cullen's wrist, she rested her cheek in his palm before answering. “Exhausted. Famished.” She looked at him then, emerald gaze gleaming with jest. “Happier than ever.”

Cullen hummed, a hand sneaking to her neck’s warm nape as he pulled her in for a kiss sweeter than ripest drop. It may have deepened if not for the pitter-patter closing in on them, accompanied by excited cries.

“Tinty! Tinty!”

The couple broke apart to welcome their guest with a smile. Bernardo had grown taller even over the past week, chubby feet filling out his sandals as he walked.

“Apologies,” Luís hurried to keep up with his grandson, “he insisted on coming.” The Antivan tipped his hat, giving a half-bow. “How are you, my lady?”

“Very well, thank you. How have you been, Luís?”

His mouth opened, exposing a battered row of teeth before a tug at his trousers cut him off. “ _Vovô_ \- Tinty!”

The Orlesian doors leading to the terrace parted. “I hear our presence is being requested?” Alistair emerged, hair tousled as if recently woken from a nap. A striped linen tie stretched across his front, a pair of short arms wiggling about on either side. Just below Alistair’s chin a head of ginger curls peeked out, craning to survey the scene.

Cullen chuckled. “I’m afraid it’s not so much your presence as that of the young lady here.”

Nodding, Alistair held the small body steady with one hand while untying the sling with the other. “Don't worry, I'm used to it,” he said, lifting the child out to face Bernardo.

“Tinty!” he called, approaching as Alistair squatted to hold her at ground level, smoothing out the crumpled dress matching her mother's. “There you go, Trinity. Say _olá_!”

Though not quite vocal, the babe’s reaction was endearing. A smile spanned all of Trinity’s face as the boy reached out, squealing in delight.

“Gentle, Bernardo,” Luís reminded him. “How old is she now?”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed, tongue at the corner of his mouth as he pondered. “Around five months-“

“Twenty-one weeks and four days, to be precise,” Cullen interrupted with a smirk.

“You got me there, Rutherford,” Alistair conceded, supporting their daughter by the armpits as her and Bernardo inspected each other.

Luís tutted, voice hushed with incredulity. “I remember like yesterday when she was born,” he held his hands just over a foot apart, “so thin and frail. And the lady,” he trailed off, anguish darkening his features. The ensuing silence lasted but a short moment, for he then looked at Cullen, smiling. “But did I not tell you, _Senhor_ \- all will be good?”

Cullen nodded, raising his glass. “That you did.”

Returning the nod, Luís put his hat back on. “Please excuse us now,” he sniffed at the trail of garlic and meat coming from the quarters, “dinner should be ready soon. Come, Bernardo.”

“Bye-bye, Bernardo!” Alistair moved Trinity's dainty hand in a mock wave. As soon as he turned towards them, Cullen poured him a glass of wine.

Alistair gave one of his cackles. “Still so very presumptuous, Commander.”

_“_ It seems I know my husband too well,” Cullen retorted, pushing the drink across the table.

Between them their wife giggled at their never-ending bickering before placing a kiss atop the babe's forehead.

They drank, appreciating wine and scenery in comfortable quiet. In between sips Alistair bounced Trinity on his knee, entertaining her with ever-new sounds and grimaces until she stiffened, her shoulders tightening. Alistair gulped, his pitch climbing to dramatic heights.

“Oh dear Maker,” he exclaimed, “please tell me you’re not doing a-“ Between grunts of effort, Trinity cooed at her father's bulging eyes and exaggerated choking noises.

"You know, Alistair," Cullen offered, grinning, "I'm never quite sure who exactly is the child and who the grown-up with you two."

"Now, now," Alistair addressed the squealing girl, "don't you agree, my little wedge, that this whole _adulting_ business is regarded rather too highly?" Not expecting a response, he stood and pushed back his chair. "Come on, let's get you changed."

Trevelyan got up to follow him. "I'll come with you in case you need a hand."

"I shan't, but having your wisdom and beauty at my side as I tackle this smelly beast certainly won't hurt."

Chuckling, she stopped at the door, turning back. "Cullen?"

He pointed at his half-empty glass. "I’ll be there in a minute.”

His love nodded, entering the building just as the commentary came from inside. "He's dodging the dodgy stuff, isn't he? Some things never do change..."

Clear-cut crystal absorbed Cullen's soft laugh. Rolling the evening's final drops on his tongue, he relaxed into his pillow once more. Lazy feet stretched as heavy-lidded eyes took in pink skies, lush fields and serenity.

_They really could have done far worse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per the prompter's request I snuck an "adulting is overrated" in there. (^^)
> 
> Wow. This is it. This has to be the most heartfelt, emotional and invested piece I've written. My sincere gratitude goes out to all of you who read, kudos'd, commented and shared with me their feelings on these three.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> [Find me (and the boys) on Tumblr!](https://http://cullenstairshenanigans.t%20Tumblr.com) ʘ‿ʘ


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